Archives for September 2014

No, not the beer sort, silly. I’m referring to the guys on the cover of every romance novel—shaven chests and 6-pack abs.

Why is that fucking attractive, anyway? There’s no good biological reason. I like tits. I know why I like tits—shapely, puffy ones are signs of nourishment. (God, now I’m thirsty. Be right back.) Ass too! I love a woman’s ass. Why? Well, a firm, round, bouncy one is a sign of a superior baby oven, a wonderful vessel to help spread my genes. But abs? WTF? Sure, it’s an impressive sign of fitness, but they offer nothing, biologically speaking. No, not a sign of strength. You want strength? Any no-ab-having NFL lineman can squash Matthew McConaughey like a bug. Abs are stupid. I’m eating a jelly donut.

Fine. You want the chiseled fellow. You’re not going to be upset when your dinner date features lawn, with a side of shrubbery? OK. You dream of running your hands down his mid-section like a cheese grater. Oh, and the “V” at the belt line. (Stupid too.) Yes, I know. The “V” is dreamy. Christ. Do you have any idea how much time this Adonis spends biking, running, swimming, and doing sit-ups? Where’s he going to find time to ring your bell?

All right. I give up.

You know where you find this guy: at the gym. Yes, I realize he may be running. That’s not a good time to approach him. Maybe, only when he’s stretching before the run. Just meet him at the gym. He’ll be on the ab deck, or sprinting on a treadmill. If he’s punching and kicking a big pad, best to move along. If he’s holding a weight behind his head, crunching reps, make your move. Just walk up, and ask if you can work in. (Hint: If there’s an unoccupied sit-up bench right next to him, that’s not a good time.) When he begins loading plates up on the bench press, wait until he gets in position, then strut up, and ask if you can spot him. Let’s hope you’re wearing shorts, and your lady parts are flowery. Why? Well, you’re going to be basically straddling his face as you spot him. Yep. Hot, huh?

After the workout, stud-monkeys usually hit the sauna. That’s a good hunting ground, too. Follow him in there, sit behind him, and think nasty thoughts, like how you’d love to lick sweat off his “V.” (I just got a douche chill. Fuck. I need another donut.) You can make a witty move. I’ve actually done this. Offer him your water bottle. Tell him it’s not water; it’s a Cadillac margarita. Come to think of it, when I did this, the woman cringed, and left. Maybe it’s funnier coming from a woman. Give it a shot.

So, what do you do to keep him away from other ab lovers? First, I’d enlist him to be your personal trainer. That should make it clear to the gym-sluts that he’s off the market. Second, whatever you do, make sure you downplay his attributes around your girlies. Tell them he has an itsy bitsy wiener, vag isn’t on his special diet, and he has hemorrhoids. That should keep them away. I know you’re tempted to show off nasty pics of him. Don’t. Keep them in your personal spank bank.

Enjoy your specimen, while it lasts. Eventually, he’ll give in to the lure of buffalo wings and Hefeweizen. Fuck. Now I’m hungry again. TTYL

Whether he’s a guitar player, handyman, or a painter, he’ll consider himself an artist, and he’ll have exceptional abilities with his hands, which should be alluring to you. Nothing’s worse than dating a man who pokes your vaganus looking for the love button. Artists have ample dexterity to keep you coming (eh hem) back for more.

These boys do come with quirks. Musicians make funny faces, so you can expect an o-face to resemble a stroke in progress. Dim all the lights, sweet darling, and you’ll avoid that distortion. Handymen will have calluses and dirty fingernails. Keep a rubber glove dispenser bedside. Painters might overdo the cross stroke. “Up, down, up, down, left, right, left, right … for fuck’s sake, Picasso, mix in a few circles, will ya?”

Many artists join a mysterious cult, which requires them to grow head shrubbery, wear worn clothing, and shower less frequently than all the rest of us would prefer. Take a tip from coroners, and dab a bit of Vicks under your schnozola if things get out of hand.

Let’s say you’ve targeted one of these specimens. Perhaps, you’re strolling along a street fair, killing some time while getting brain freezes from Italian Ice. Suddenly you stumble upon a talented cartoon artist, who has just finished a portrait of some gap-toothed mouth breathers. Whip out a twenty, and tell him to have a go. Tug that top down a smidge, arch that back, and lick away at that cherry ice as he strokes your heartstrings. If the final product is acceptable, offer to bring him a two-pump venti soy fuck-a-latte.

If he’s not a sausage smuggler, he’ll graciously accept your offer. Before you know it, you’ll be bouncing away on his beanbag chair, while listening to Miles Davis.

Now, I’m hoping you don’t have a silly aversion to recreational drug use, because most of the wonderful art and music we enjoy was made by really high people. I’m not saying he should be two finger slapping his veins as foreplay, but there will probably be some form of marijuana involved in the sexcursion. If you’re the paranoid type, just fake the heavy inhale. Let him get as baked as necessary to keep him pulling your hair, nibbling your ear, and drawing baby batter puddles on your back.

You might want to beware of photographers. They’re eventually going to take a shot you were not expecting. I don’t care how much he begs and promises, remove that memory card from his camera, and toss it in the garbage disposal, or you’ll be sorry. Any exposed naughty bits will wind up in front of your mother, son, or coworkers. If he insists, make him use a Polaroid camera, then confiscate the pictures and shred them. Just for insurance, I’d sneak a shot of him with his morning wood.

Keeping the artist involved in your life may require you to attend various events you’d rather avoid. There will be art exhibits, concerts, and poetry readings. I’d rather have an ice water enema than be surrounded by a bunch of pretentious hand-on-chin aristocrats, staring at paintings I could have drawn with my feet in second grade. But, I’m not trying to date an artist, am I? You’ll just need to tolerate it, sugar, if you want to continue enjoying his strokes of penis.

I’ve been told that I can be sarcastic. To which I say, “Who? Me?” All right. I admit, perhaps, on some odd occasions, I can add excess salt to my commentary. This is a coping mechanism, my dear. Men like me are sarcastic to keep us from breaking stuff. It’s how we vent. Better to whip with words. (Take note, NFLPA.)

It’s true that many women avoid sarcastic men. (Hence, my unoccupied lap at this moment.) Yet, truly strong women aren’t offended by off-color remarks; they’re amused, and they fire back with a dose of their own snarkasm. So, maybe you’re one of these granite girlies, and you’ve found yourself a salty Sam. Put in your mouthpiece and get ready for battle. It can be sexy.

Speaking of sex, you might want to be careful with sackasm. The following are quite hurtful, and should not be uttered:

“Is that it?”

“No, I love having my vag shredded by unclipped fingernails. Next, why don’t you shove one of your lovely toe-claws up my ass?”

If, by chance, you aren’t quite as snarky as you’d like to be, I can give you some tips to simple sarcasm. The easiest, most effective way to deliver a verbal jab is to answer any statement he makes with, “Really?” Yes, indeed. Personally, I find that particular strategy to be amateurish. Yes, I do. You could put a bit more effort into by saying, “How did that make you feel?” Yes, you could. Yes, my therapist says it. Yes, she does.

OK, knock it the fuck off!

Listen. If you like this guy, you need to give and take in this area. Absorb a few jabs, then counter. He’ll find it refreshingly attractive. Let’s role play. We’re in a bar (duh), you see me, get all tingly (double duh), and you approach me.

“Hi. I’m Alice. Do you come here often, handsome?”

“No, I just stumbled in tonight for the first time and bought this worn out T-shirt with the bar’s name on it because I like taupe.”

“Would you like to shoot a game of pool?”

“Well, all right, I suppose. As long as you can avoid bending over in front of me. That’s just gross.”

“So, are you single?”

“No, my wife is busy breastfeeding our triplets in the bathroom.”

“You want to grab dinner sometime?”

“If by ‘dinner’ you mean have you go down on me, yes.”

“Slow down there, big fella. I’m not that type of woman.”

“No?”

“Unless I’m trashed on tequila, and you’re packing something larger than a peanut.”